We were zombies together, stiff-legged marching over hills and fields: one people,
one purpose, one mind, driven by a powerful urge we could not understand. From
our graves we came, or risen from hospital beds, or stepping away from plane crashes
and war zones and gangbang back alleys. Newcomers were accepted without regard
for country or creed, just as they were: pale teen suicides, blueface drowning victims, the natural deaths. We did not walk too fast for the badly decomposed or maimed.
Thus our strange little band continued to increase. We progressed through cornfields
and small towns, through the shells of strip malls and deserted cities, ever yearning. Murmuring among ourselves, fixing glazed eyes on the boarded-up stores where we
had once shopped, the office centers where we once worked, the gated communities where we once lived separate lives. Now we were on the march, all in this together. We scrounged for new recruits everywhere, as fervently as if we were on a spiritual
quest of some kind. Perhaps we were. True, some may have overplayed their part, murmuring brains, brains, and frightening small children, but that was all quite passé
and unnecessary. We were indomitable: no illness or blow from a shovel could ever
break up our ragtag but powerful collective. We had no long-term worries: the world
would eventually run short of weapons, and till then each bullet expended only bred
more slapstick pacifists like ourselves. Peace, it is thought, must eventually prevail
in a hungry, post-zombie world. But who can separate the living from the living dead,
so stripped as we all are? And what else is that hunger inside us, if not love?